


The Ones Who Hunt Alone

by veritasa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character motivation, F/M, Go Away I'm Not Your Herald, Introspection, Multiple Pov, culture clash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritasa/pseuds/veritasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a well-considered disguise, at least. For who would look at this strange apostate dreamer and see the One Who Hunts Alone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fen'Harel: Before the Conclave

He flexed his hands, feeling the pull of tendons that have been unused too long. He had spent time restoring this body carefully, but it felt age where it should not. He would have to fix that. He stared at the meal in front of him, carefully provided by the innkeeper at Haven. It was a bit of a difficult situation to be here, in a town that was practically drowning in violent mages and vengeful templars. Still, he kept a low profile and most seemed content to leave him be. Even the templars seemed to recognize that he was not a threat. Somewhere not too far off, the Divine was meeting with her delegations from the warring parties. Somewhere farther off, the ancient Tevinter Magister was attempting to unlock the orb. And when he did, he would not feel this age in his hands.

It was his own magic, after all, purified and focused through centuries of study and effort. But millennia of uthenera had weakened him, and he was unable to unlock it. He frowned at that thought. He disliked being weak. And though this body and this mind were quick and spritely enough, he wanted the feeling he had during the long years in the Fade - everything bent to his will because he commanded it. He had once considered that will was what set the Creators, as they had come to be known, apart - their sheer force of will. But he was more: he was impulse and rebellion and quickness, not this facade’s slow patience that considered every rule-bound step.

It was a well-considered disguise, at least. For who would look at this strange apostate dreamer and see the One Who Hunts Alone? He was bland stale bread to the Wolf’s sharp tang of finely aged wine. Certainly no one would pay him enough mind to question why the elf went about alone, or spoke with spirits, or lived no where. No one need know these things, and this age was too preoccupied to notice. It was full of shem influence. Time itself seemed to run faster now. He felt it influence even him. He despised the shem for this before all things. Certainly they had stolen much from Elvhenan, but it was as a vulture picks over a corpse, quickening the decomposition. This quickening of time though, was nearly unforgivable.

The Tevinter Empire was built on a graveyard of the elves own making, but that did not mean he found it acceptable for the magisters to defile the sacred. He calmly, patiently sliced into the meat he had been provided, suppressing instincts of the Wolf long-repressed. He was at war with his own concealment. Every moment the whirlwind of his identity pressed against the edges of this envelope of a facade. Solas, he called himself, for pride was both a warning and an admission. He was guilty of many things, but pride was not his downfall. Trust had always filled that role.

He bit into the forkful of beef carefully, counting the bites in his head. This was a grand play, and he would fill his part to perfection. Far away, Corypheus was going to attempt spells that would unlock the power of the orb, allowing it to drift back to the Wolf, finally making him feel whole. And with that power, he would crush the blighted Tevinter who thought to overthrow the Black City, supplanting gods he thought absent. Even so ancient, Corypheus was a child playing with tools he did not understand, and the power of the orb would remind the world that true gods never need prove themselves. Not even with beautiful singing brides pulled from oblivion to speak of things she doesn’t understand.

He frowned at that. Andraste had been a beautiful charming face for him to puppet when it was necessary. It was another attempt to set things right. The People had long failed and were numerous among the slaves of Tevinter. He had to put a stop to it, but that body, too, was old and slow and unbeloved of any crowd. He always chose a face other than his own, with quick words and soft voice, to woo the crowds in his stead. They incited the rebellion he desired, they stoked the flames of ardor for freedom while he quietly guided them. It had always been so. When his power was restored, he would do so again. He would find someone to rise to power with his honey-sweet words in their ear, and he would rule Thedas, bring Tevinter low, and now Orlais too. It was frustrating how little the Dalish cared for such things. They pretended to aspire to Elvhenan, but their memories did not even reach back to Halamshiral. They were children who shunned the mentorship of their betters, and worse, they did not even know it. He despised them for that, among many things.

Still, there were remnants of the People in the city, the Circles, and yes, even the aravels. Fragments, broken and ill-fitting, but he could put them to use. He could restore them to what they should be, fill their hearts with independence and freedom until they broke every chain of their own creation, until they pulsed with energy so raw it shattered the Veil and brought back the Creators. 

That, his greatest miscalculation. He would need the power of his orb to remedy the situation. For the People, he would risk the wrath of Elgar’nan. He would need to seek out Mythal when this was done, for only she could assuage the All-Father. 

He raised another bite to his lips, counted the vacillations of his jaw. He would only need maintain this facade for a few more days at most. By then Corypheus would have unlocked the orb. By then he would be restored. And after him, the People.

He felt the explosion long before he saw it. Felt the power that should have been his erupt into the world, sliding across threads of the Veil that were pulled too tight, plucking them like strings on a lute. He felt his spirit vibrate with the Veil and nearly readied himself to receive the song. But it went wrong. The power was absorbed into something else - a living thing with the capacity to hold such power! - and he dropped his fork. Not far away, the Divine was dead. Not far away, Corypheus had discovered more than the Wolf had ever imagined he would. Pride, he had called himself, and now it appeared to be true. He, like his empire before him, had given power to those he thought could never wield it, only to have it stolen by an usurper. 

He wanted to rage. Wanted to release the Wolf as it howled within him to trample and tear and devour. He held it back, but only barely, as he flew to the door, staff in hand. Above him, angry and sickly green in the sky, was a tear in the fabric of the Veil. His great work was rent by the power that he had locked away, released too fast, too violently. His eyes cast about for a solution, but what solution could their be? He ran toward the temple, taking a step through the weakened Fade when no one could see. He had to know, had to see. He could still recover the orb and undo this thing. If he could even get a trickle of magic from this relic of his, he could force Corypheus into submission and restore order. 

But there, among the spirits twisted in pain and terror and despair, was a girl child, young and marked for Sylaise. Except for her hand, which burned bright in his mind. He wanted to shake her, to force the magic out of her like one forces juice from a grape. He wanted to press her against him and take the magic into himself again. But it was a girl, a living vessel, and she was containing his magic. He looked up at the gaping hole in the Veil. She was containing it for now, at least.


	2. Leliana: Hands in Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana and Cassandra cope with the immediate aftermath of the Conclave's explosion.

She should have seen it coming, should have gathered more information. They should have made the meeting site more secure. There were too many people, unvetted in their interests and intentions, too close to the Divine. Sister Leliana had warned her, told her she should have a small meeting so that she could be safer. She despised safe, she said, if it came at the cost of exclusion of many. And that was just like her. She always wanted to draw people closer together, even as they were rushing to tear themselves apart. 

Leliana’s hands shook here, in the privacy of the small room she used in the Chantry. They shook as she wept and sweated and begged. They had all heard the explosion, all known the only building that could cause such debris to litter across the Frostbacks. And then the scouts had started to come back - the blast had all but decimated the Temple of Sacred Ashes, leaving no one alive - except a small, pale Dalish girl who had stepped out of the Fade, sent out of the gash in reality by a woman. A few whispered that Andraste had expelled her from the rift. 

Leliana’s hands still shook as she tried to pray. Trials came to mind, but there were no words for this overwhelming sense of loss and grief. There was no praise on her lips now, no glories to name for the Maker and his bride. Sister Leliana was all loss, all grief. 

There came a knock on her door. Soft, tentative. Scouts did not come to her here - that was known. But Cassandra did. Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes to stop her tears, Leliana gathered herself before opening the door only long enough for Cassandra to come inside. The other woman was tense, every muscle poised for a fight that would not come. Leliana knew that maddened Cassandra, who admired martial force and the Maker’s faith in all things. But they were condemned to wait in agonizing uncertainty, the stillness of their task worming its way under their skin.

“The prisoner is secure. Adan says she may not wake, even with his best medicine.” She gritted her teeth. Cassandra wanted as badly as the people to punish the prisoner for what she seemed to have done. After all, she had the mark on her hand that matched the hole in the sky, and she alone had survived the blast. Leliana cursed the lack of information, but tried to steady Cassandra’s temper.

“I finished questioning the apostate who was near the Breach. He has agreed to assist Adan, given his experience in Fade magic.”

“You trust an apostate? An elf?”

Leliana shot Cassandra a harsh look. It was one of the areas the two disagreed most vehemently about - the inclusion of apostates in society and elves in the Chantry. “I trust that there is little more he can do than what has already been done - and he has chosen to stay of his own free will. His story rings true enough.”

“Enough?”

“I cannot blame an apostate for lying to cover his tracks and protect anyone who might have helped him in the past.”

Cassandra made a noise in the back of her throat. “Then I shall expect results of this claimed expert.”

“Let us hope.” Leliana wanted to shove Cassandra from the room and return to her shattered prayers, when the sound of angry shouting reached them even here. Her eyes flicked to Cassandra’s uneasy face.

“The people have decided her guilt. They want her to pay the price.”

“They cannot! There is so much we do not know.”

“I know they cannot! Do you think I would let them kill her before she could answer any questions about what happened?”

“We do not know she’s guilty, Cassandra, only that the people think she is. We must intercede.”

“Very well. I will call some of the guards for her, but what will you do, throw your ravens at them?”

 

Cassandra was hurting as much as Leliana, and had little experience in how to handle such powerlessness and grief. Leliana knew this, knew that was why she lashed out. She laid a hand on the Seeker’s arm. “Come, let us at least prevent them from doing her harm.”

Huffing, Cassandra followed Leliana out toward the noise of the crowd.


	3. Fen'Harel: The Fear That Freed Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel - now Solas among the mourners at Haven - decides to save the life of the Dalish girl who unknowingly stole his power.

Three days. Three days she was unconscious. Pinned, he imagined, as a runaway cart might pin a small animal against a tree. The Anchor, the needle that sewed the Veil, was pressed against her palm, burned into her, and it was killing her. He had thought at first that he could remove it from her, liberate her from the deathroes that Corypheus’s astonishingly proficient and yet horribly bumbling efforts had condemned her too.

And how had the magister come so close to stealing power from the Orb? The power only belonged to the Wolf, and it burned him that he had come so close to losing it to someone so unworthy. At least this chit of a girl would one day die, and the magic would return to its orb, as it always did. Which meant he needed to regain the orb before she died. 

He sat with her in the dungeon, surrounded by herbs and poultices provided by Adan. He was a competent man, and would have saved her long ago if what ailed her had ever been seen before on this side of the Veil. Even so, for all his efforts, he - Solas, as the people in Haven called him - was unable to contain the mark on her hand. It did not spread as the Blight spread, or as poison crept up a wound. Instead, he felt it spread deeper inside her without leaving any mark on her skin other than the entry wound. He felt it, rather than saw it, because it was his magic. She smelled of it, sounded like it, and in a moment alone with her he noted that her palm tasted of it. The Wolf had howled inside of him then, ravenous to consume her and take the magic back into himself. 

But he was still weak, and there was too much opposition here to openly slaughter someone in the dungeon. He cursed himself for the thousandth time in three days - exposure to so many shemlen was speeding up even his thoughts - and looked down at her open palm cradled in his lap. He knelt in front of her, since the Seeker had insisted on the bindings, and traced his fingers over the dull glow that showed his magic. It was so close, so familiar. It was unlocked from the orb, but now held, trapped, contained, bound within this helpless creature.

The feeling within him flared unexpectedly. It was a deep possessiveness, a protective instinct he felt rarely. She was his - already bound to him, though she didn’t know it. One of the People, though her markings betrayed her as a foolish girl from the wandering Dalish clans. She was his - the markings on her face were irrelevant now that his mark was on her hand. He would keep her safe just as he had the orb - better than he had taken care of the orb. She contained his very essence, and he noted the feeling of longing that tried to grow within him before he stifled its progress. He would protect her as a vessel for his power, and he would see it through until he could find the orb and reclaim it. That, at least, Corypheus could not do - only the true owner of an orb had such power over it.

He supposed he should be thankful to the small, pitiful creature for intercepting the Anchor. If Corypheus bore it along with the orb, then truly terrible things were possible. This girl - no one seemed to know her name - had inadvertently stood between destruction and the fickle people who now wanted to execute her. 

Lynch her, more likely. The mob had tried three times to enter the dungeon - that had been why she was moved to this place to begin with - until finally the Seeker and the Divine’s Left Hand had calmly stepped between the angry crowds and the door. The Seeker’s martial presence was surely a deterrent, but he had his suspicions that it was Sister Leliana’s cold, knowing smile that had pushed the crowd away. 

Crouched there in the dungeon, he made a decision. He could not save her from this - but she could save herself. No amount of herbal potion would help her, but he could throw her from the Fade, harry her out of her nightmares and into the waking world. Awake, she could give the Anchor what it needed - thread for the needle, something to weave in and out of the Veil, a living spirit to adhere to to begin to mend the tears. Perhaps if she could manage that, she could live long enough for him to recover the orb. 

Gently laying her hand back on her knee, he picked up his staff and withdrew from the room. The guard nodded at him as he left, walking through the small town toward the hut he had been assigned. It, too, was guarded, but against his leaving. He shrugged out of his overcoat, lay his staff on the ground beside him, and lay down on the bed. In minutes, he was in the Fade, hunting through infinite dreams to focus on one - hers. 

He found her among too many demons - such power as the Anchor could not help but draw them - and his teeth ripped through the woody flesh of a Terror demon. She saw him then, gray and black and shadow and blood and teeth - and eyes, oh so many eyes. For the Veil was his, and he saw more than most here, a thing that manifested itself in more eyes than she could possibly understand. But it mattered little. She was being crushed by the weight of spirits who wanted out, wanted power, wanted more than the Veil allowed them. He had always borne guilt for that, and entertained the company of spirits who would linger in the Fade rather than those clamboring for escape.

A desire demon, cold and bitter on his tongue. A rage demon, like a shock of warm mulled wine gone bad. His claws found the flesh of a fear demon, because he did not like to dirty his tongue with their flavors. Desire and envy fell to his onslaught, too. He was not merciful today. She was his, and they had dared to tempt her. Finally, he turned to her. He could be kind, he knew, but kindness would not throw her from the Fade. She needed to be woken, to be shocked or frightened. And so he turned the full weight of his gaze on her. Shadow and darkness and eyes boring down into her spirit, pressing her tighter and tighter against the Veil. He could see her gasping for air as he pressed closer against her, his spirit so intimately close to hers that it was dizzying. He willed her to raise her hand, to ask the needle to do what all needles did - to pierce the fabric they were made to alter. She let out a breathless scream. 

It was her own fear that freed her. She raised her hand to protect herself from him - a flimsy gesture against his power here - and the Anchor flared to life. In a moment she was gone. The flavor of her pain lingered in this place, and he tasted it both to ensure it was sufficient to wake her and to have something more pleasant on his tongue than demon flesh. And she did taste sweet, even this most primal part of her. If her fear, dark and twisted as that part of a spirit was, could taste like this, how sweet would her desire be? A growl rose up out of him, transforming into a long howl. He stalked away from this place. Anxious to hunt, to be done with this diversion. For no mortal such as the Dalish girl could be more than a diversion.


	4. Cullen: Blood and Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen fights with his own demons while the soldiers battle those falling from the Breach.

The troops had been battling demons for just over three days. Three days that the hole in the sky spat abominations into this world, with no way to stop them except the death of good men. It sickened Cullen. He could command them, but this seemed nearly unbeatable. He had faced demons before, and those memories made cold sweat run down his back nearly every hour of the day. But his men needed him. They were new to his command, barely even aware that he had no real authority to command them, as he had abandoned the Templar Order. But there was no one left after the blast that could have commanded. And had the Right Hand of the Divine not requested him specifically to lead the troops of the yet-unformed Inquisition.

The song of lyrium sang loud in his head. Had it truly been a week without it? And the red spikes sang in a cracking minor tune that nearly split his head with the noise of it. His fingers ran over his palm, feeling the sweat, the pure need for lyrium. He gritted his teeth. He would see this through, see the men in his care as safe as could be expected. And perhaps then he would take the lyrium. Perhaps if it was still this bad, he would not endure.

He rolled anxiously on his bedroll, unable to sleep. His dreams had been an enemy for ten long years, but now his body was against him as well. The night was cold in the mountains, but he had removed everything but his breeches in an effort to cool the sweats that wracked him time and again. The lyrium held his body hostage as it worked its way through his system, calling him like a desire demon.

Of course he would compare this trial to that first one. He remembered when watching the Hero of Ferelden survive her Harrowing had been the most difficult thing he’d ever faced. That was short-lived. Within the year, Kinloch Hold was utterly changed, destroyed by the magic that he should have been paying attention to. He’d cursed his wandering eyes many times since then. Perhaps if he hadn’t spent so much time daydreaming about Solona Amell, he would have seen the things that were happening under his very nose. 

As another wave of cold sweat and intense pain ran through him, he made a choked noise in his throat before cursing. He would get no sleep that night. He wondered if he would get sleep any night for the rest of his life. And very briefly before sitting up to begin refastening his armor, he wondered if the rest of his life would be very long at all.


	5. Fen'Harel: Starting Fires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel finally meets the Herald while they battle demons, recalling the last time he had stood by a woman the shemlen raised to glory.

They had told him she had woken, though he had already known it. The dull thrum of this lie he was living had started to sink in. Sister Leliana had interrogated him, and he had fed her just enough truth through the lies to assuage her. She thought herself canny, and against any other foe he would be glad to have her on his side. But he was the Lord of Tricksters, and while the Dalish thought he giggled in glee at his deceptions, it was a deeper, quieter satisfaction that he took from deceiving the spymaster. They had gone so far as to return his staff. 

He felt no great attachment to the staves he had been using since he woke. They reminded him that he needed something to channel his power, to focus the weak, wilted magic he was still possessed of. It infuriated him. And so he had agreed to go with the child of the stone to slay demons. They were corrupted beyond help, and would only suffer and cause suffering once they were perverted like this. The Wolf was so near the surface now, so tight against the skin of this Solas creature he hid inside, that he found himself fighting in a natural rhythm. No, not fighting. Hunting. 

And then he felt her at the edge of his awareness, a pinch in the fabric of the Veil. She was approaching fast, along with the strange stillness that was the Seeker. Her power erupted over the hill and shattered a shade he had taken in a winter’s grasp. She nodded to him briefly, an exchange between warriors, and he found the smallest smile curling his lips. She had seen battle before - good, she may yet survive what is to come. She may yet be useful. 

As they fought, his mind floated away from the automatic movements of his body to another mage girl who had fought at his side. He had brought her armies , and she had charmed the masses. She had been a shemlen, it was true, but she was useful. It was she who burned for their heresy and not he. She had served the People, and more than that, the slaves. And once again, thinking his job was through in the establishment of the Dales, he had drifted out of history. 

And now he woke again to find it had gone so wrong. The sudden burst of rage called one such demon to him, but he lashed out powerfully, coinciding with one of the dwarf’s arrows. As the demon faded away, he was finally able to give the slip of a girl his full attention. He snatched her wrist and willed the magic in her through the Anchor. His aura was flush against hers, pushing, pulling, begging it to work. He could teach her this, and make her think she knew it all along. When the rift closed, he looked at her while she examined the mark in her hand. Were all the Dalish so small now? She was so breakable, so thin and pale. He wondered if she’d ever eaten a proper meal in her life. But he had seen the Dalish camps, known how they lived and worked and believed, and all of it was so wrong. It was a wonder any of them survived. 

But she smiled at him, and at the dwarf. She did not cringe in fear or shyness. He wondered if the others saw the pain the mark caused her. She was bearing up against it bravely, but it could still kill her. Her bearing indicated that she knew it too. Her eyes darted toward the Breach, as though all these pleasantries were keeping her from her goal. And yet she smiled. It was curious. Most Dalish would be skittish or aggressive. And here she was making pleasantries with a Seeker and a dwarf.

“Are… you with the Chantry?” She was looking at the dwarf questioningly

He nearly laughed, and turned his face away to hide at least some of his amusement. Oh, how sheltered she was! “Was that a serious question?” 

She looked at him then, truly looked at him for the first time. Her eye was marked with the smaller marking for Sylaise. Perhaps her hair covered it, if it were ever let down. He wondered if she had chosen that marking for such a purpose. A spy, then? No, Dalish were hard-pressed to keep their presence a secret among others. But she fought with poise that did not befit the Hearthkeeper’s chosen. It occurred to him then that it was her fire that had perhaps been the catalyst. An unusual school of magic for a keeper, and perhaps why she had felt called to the hearth - she would start fires for the clan. He was intrigued. Her battle skill showed she had started other fires as well.

He found he liked the curiosity in her eyes. He was resourceful, and would use whatever was at hand, but a child full of curiosity was a treasure. Curiosity could be turned to many uses. He wondered how deep it ran - would a simple answer sate her, or would it only whet her appetite for knowledge? He was surprised to find that he hoped for the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few theories about Fen'Harel, Andraste, etc. This one plays with the idea that Fen'Harel was also Shartan, hence all the memories of Andraste. It also runs with the Tevinter idea that Andraste was a powerful mage.


	6. Lavellan: To Mend the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellana Lavellan learns of her new title and decides to use the Inquisition before it can use her.

Ellana grabbed at the sleeves of the strange shemlen garment she wore, hoping they didn’t notice her hands trembling. She was a Dalish First! She did not tremble for the likes of a few shemlen. Even if those shemlen were all armed. Even if one of them was a templar, one admitted she could light the lyrium in her blood aflame, and one looked at her as though she was the soul-sister of the Dread Wolf. At least the woman in the flamboyant clothing had tried her best to greet her. Andiran atish’an. She had heard little of the language her clan tossed back and forth around the fire since departing the Free Marches some months ago. It had been some small relief.

She forced herself to release her hold on the sleeves. The Chantry cleric had all but condemned her. She knew of his sort of shemlen, had met them in the markets of Markham. They alternated between revulsion and too-sharp curiosity when they saw her face, her ears, her clothing. They bought from her when it was convenient, and tossed her from their stalls when it was not. They were quick children, born of convenience, and knew no sympathy for the Dalish. In truth, the Dalish knew no sympathy for them, either. 

The Seeker, her jailer, had dismissed him, and that was when she began to realize - somehow in surviving these past few hours - days, since she had been asleep - she had become more than a prisoner. Even the way these elite humans had spoken of her had changed. She was no longer the prisoner - she was the Herald of Andraste.

She tried not to laugh when they’d told her that - Andraste? The legendary bride of their fabled Maker? She did not know how to explain the figure in the rift, but the figurehead of their religion wasn’t it. 

All the same, she was a daughter of Lavellan, a powerful mage, a Dalish elf. Never again would she submit. And if they wanted her to help them establish their Inquisition, to seal the rifts that no one else could, and to knit together then frayed threads of the society they built on the bones of her people - well, she would knit something of her own pattern.


	7. Fen'Harel: Indomitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas - he accepts now that this is the part he plays - discovers something most intriguing about Ellana.

The Breach, it seemed was stabilized. He had postured, claiming he had a theory that it would work, but he had made it, and was the only one who knew how to patch it. He had watched her fight, again hoping to puzzle out where she had become comfortable in combat. But still it eluded him. The flavor of her own magic was too tainted with his. Not tainted - touched. To him, the scent of her magic was intoxicating. She was his and did not even know it. He had dreamed often while she slept after closing the Breach, shredding demons who thought to look at her. His.

Now, though, he almost laughed at the terrible coincidence. The guards had seen a woman expel her from the Fade - curious, indeed - and attributed it to Andraste. The she-elf they reviled a few minutes before was now being called the Herald of Andraste. She was even called into the War Room, in council with the leaders of the newborn Inquisition. His magic had once aided Andraste in her rise, and now the one being called her Herald was filled with that magic. 

Alone in his quarters, he tried to still his mind a moment, to tame the rush of moments around him. He was a rock in that stream - unchanging even in the face of so much shemlen influence. He was power and impulse and rebellion. He remembered when that meant turning the tide against those closest to him. He remembered when spirits and magic had flowed so close to the People that they were considered friends. But it had not been enough, and they had made slaves of their own – marked their faces with blood magic to gift the spirits with freedom by taking away that of an entire class of elves. 

He had reveled in it, too. Born of that privilege, and raised further by his own prowess, he had owned slaves, seduced women, rocked the world askew with the sheer force of his magic. He was one of the People and yet more. It was only with age that he began to understand the trouble that being more bought for him. He was the wolf that led the lambs to slaughter. It did not matter that his intentions were good, that freedom was his goal. He would be remembered as a betrayer. He had freed slaves, locked away the Pantheon and the spirits that gave them their power, and remained to mourn Mythal. When his mourning was done, he had slid away into the darkness.

The slaves did not rise – the People fell. Was it too much for this world to bear for an entire people to be free? To think thoughts of their own creation? He frowned and rose from the desk, needing the chilled mountain air to cool his thoughts.

And of course she was there, the small thing with the mark of one who he betrayed. He emptied his face and voice of emotion, clothed himself with the rag of this Solas. He watched her from behind his own eyes, contained, measured. This Solas was a scholar where the Wolf was one to act. To hunt. 

She asked him questions. Many questions. He only half listened to them as his eyes traced over her, investigating her, weighing her value. Could she turn the world to her side as easily as Andraste? Perhaps not, with ears and skin that marked her as something other than powerful. But had not Andraste’s pale skin and powerful magic also left her an outsider? And that curiosity… He found himself answering a question that he had not registered her asking.

“You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit.”

She cocked her head, an eyebrow rising. It was distracting. “Indomitable focus?”

The wolf inside him grinned. “Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be… fascinating.” His eyes flashed and he nearly grinned when her eyes widened ever so slightly. Oh, this would be delicious. A little naïve Dalish girl with hope in her eyes and flirtation on her tongue. And she was ripe with his power, ready to be shown so much more than she had known. Her was no Dirthamen, but he could show her secrets she could only dream.

Ah, dreams… his smile did curl up wolfishly then, and he did not try to contain it. She met it with her own, a quick but almost lascivious thing that faded away before he could acknowledge it. "I will stay."

"Was that in doubt?" 

Oh, sweet naive girl. She trusted her safety, perhaps because the shemlen let her believe she was important to them. And she vowed to keep him safe from them. Such a small girl, but the faith of a child coupled with her curiosity and bound to his power - now that could be a force to contend with. 

He watched her retreat from him back to the safety of the Chantry, though he did not miss the glance she left him. Fascinating indeed.


	8. Varric: The Hinterlands

So the Herald of Andraste set off across the wilderness with her faithful companions to find the lone figure of wisdom in the Chantry. Sounds like the beginning to one hell of a story. Especially when you consider the fact that the damn woman is standing in the middle of a war zone. And that the Herald of Andraste was toting around an acerbic Seeker, an apostate elf with a stick up his butt, and a surface dwarf with a penchant for extravagant lies. 

Varric sighed as he wiped some blood off Bianca. The Hinterlands were boring, normally, at least from the looks of them. Farms and rivers and rocks and nothingness. No cities except Redcliffe, which had never quite recovered from the craziness of the Blight. Darkspawn were bad enough - that poor town gotten beaten up from the inside too. He wasn’t one to judge, but it seemed like a place he would even skip over while reading a map.

But it wasn’t like that now. It was full of rifts and angry mages and self-absorbed templars and it was just too much like Kirkwall. His hand hitched in their steady progression down the arms of the bow. Kirkwall. He scoffed and forced his hands to move again.

This was just shit. Every step was wading through more of it. And somehow the Dalish girl was making it look easy. Sure, she didn’t trust any of them as far as she could throw them, but she was running around killing combatants in the Maker-forsaken war like it was her job. Well, it really was now. Curly had practically grinned himself into servitude with her after she’d flirted with him once. The Seeker had admitted her prowess in battle, and Ellana hadn’t said “to hell with the Chantry” yet, so she was ok. As for Chuckles, well, he had an unhealthy fascination with the her, although you could only see it if you were used to recognizing such things. As Varric was. After all, hadn’t he told Hawke - a blood mage - that her attention on Sebastien was more than a little risky? He’d eat his left sock if she ever listened to him about such things, but he’d still noticed. 

He wondered if he should tell Chuckles to back off a bit. Folks were already skeptical of him, and if he burned their newfound Herald, it wouldn’t go well for him. 

Varric looked up at the rest of the group. The Seeker was discussing strategy with a local recruit - probably bored out of her skull out here. Chuckles was out for a walk in the newly-cleaned up farms area. Probably sleeping. The guy liked to do that a lot. And then there was Ellana.

She was sitting off to one side, the firelight playing off her tattoos. They were smaller than a lot of Dalish he’d seen. Merrill’s had covered most of her face. The fire danced where Ellana reached out her fingers for warmth. Not just crackled and spit like most big campfires - it danced. It was hard to look at her now after the warmth she’d shared with him earlier. Now she looked so painfully elvish that it was a wonder the camp guards didn’t point spears at her. 

Varric carefully tucked Bianca in next to his bedroll and lay back to look at the stars. The more things changed. He’d been dragged here by the Seeker after everything that had happened in Kirkwall. Ok, not quite dragged, but he hadn’t exactly come of his own free will. He was supposed to testify to the Divine after Cassandra was done talking to him. Interrogating him. He felt for Ellana a bit. Neither of them started as more than prisoners, but damn it if the Inquisition didn’t need the both of them. She had the glowy hand that closed rifts. And every great story needs a writer.


End file.
